


The Sin Eater

by Fluffyllama (Llama)



Category: Crossover - Harry Potter / RPS, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Occultist RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-24
Updated: 2011-08-24
Packaged: 2017-10-23 00:48:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/244416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llama/pseuds/Fluffyllama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everybody knows that Albus Dumbledore is a good man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sin Eater

**Author's Note:**

> ‘Edward’ was Aleister Crowley’s real name, and I’ve used that almost throughout, for reasons that make perfect sense to me, if nobody else ;-). The Sorting Hat’s song extract was taken from ‘Hymn to Pan’ by Aleister Crowley, and info on the man himself can be found [here](http://www.kirjasto.sci.fi/crowley.htm) for those not familiar with him.
> 
> The inclusion of a non-con warning is to cover an invasive medical examination which is effectively non-con.
> 
> This was written before the Harry Potter series was concluded, so my take on Grindelwald is slightly different - though not completely...

_1st December, 1947  
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

Albus Dumbledore knew he was a good man. It had to be so; it was enshrined in pages of elaborate copperplate writing in some of the books of this very library. It was inscribed on plaques and statues, printed on thousands of Chocolate Frog cards – he fidgeted with the card in his pocket from his supper-time treat – and above all, was a plain and simple fact in the mind of everybody in the wizarding world.

Everybody who wasn’t Albus Dumbledore himself, anyway.

He looked around at the towering shelves of the library. So much information, and none of it much use to him at that moment to unravel the chaos that was his mind. So many decisions, so many crossroads, so many memories spiralling back into the past, that reaching for them was like hunting out the dustiest tomes on the furthest forgotten shelf, the ones nobody visited any more. Right at the back, locked in cabinets away from prying eyes were the books written in long-dead languages, mysteries and secrets bound with layer upon layer of spells to protect their fragile pages.

Some books it was best not to open too often.  
  
“Good evening, Albus.”

Irma Pince hefted the armful of books she carried higher into the crook of her arm, and he nodded a good evening in return. She had a habit of surprising him at times such as this. Perhaps it was because he was always drawn to the library; being among books in the dead of night had always felt like finding a rare peace among the living. He’d felt it even in Muggle libraries, where the books were unlikely to perform any of the functions that could be compared to life, but here in Hogwarts it was like wandering among a reunion throng of old, good friends - or at least it could be, if you were in the right parts of the library, and watched your step after dark.

He had never been sure how Irma knew when he was there – maybe she simply patrolled the library constantly and it was pure chance - but more than once he had been grateful for her company at times such as this.

“You’re up late tonight.” She glanced up at the clock, where the hands were edging slyly towards three o’clock. “Late even for you, I mean.”

“I don’t seem to need as much sleep these days.”

She set the books down on the table and sat, arranging her skirts comfortably on the chair.

“I don’t tend to get more than four or five hours myself,” she admitted, “But you seem to sleep even less than that? It’s not good for you, not for so long.”

“There have been things on my mind.” Albus felt old enough to be the grandfather of this near-as-damnit contemporary of his tonight. Had done for the past couple of years, if he was completely honest. Yes, that was when the doubts and fears had crept up on him most strongly.

“How do we ever know if we have done the right thing, Irma?” He’d often wondered how much she knew… but there was no sign of disapproval on her face. In fact, she smiled.

“Hindsight,” she answered promptly. “Works every time.”

Albus laughed. “Yes, yes, you’re right of course.” Deep in his pockets, he rubbed his thumb along the edge of the Chocolate Frog card.

“The Ministry have lost track of Tom Riddle, you know.”

She didn’t know, of course. Probably she didn’t even realise he had been under surveillance, but she tutted all the same. Merlin bless the woman.

“We haven’t had a competent Minister for Magic since Podmore,” she said.

“I don’t think we can hold the Ministry entirely responsible this time.” Dumbledore frowned. “Tom’s an exceptionally clever boy, always was.”

Irma sniffed a little at that. “Maybe. But he had little respect for books, that young man.”

She may as well have been denouncing him as a traitor or murderer from her tone.

“Neither did Edward, if I remember rightly? Yet you were always fond of the boy.”

If Irma thought it odd to call a man who would now be over seventy a ‘boy’, she didn’t mention it. She gave him a knowing look over the book-littered table.

“You can learn a lot about people by the books they read, Albus,” she said, picking up the nearest and checking the spine. “And the company they keep.”

Books. Yes, so many books they had read together, Edward and he. It hadn’t just been a sordid affair, even at the start, however wrong he had been to succumb to temptation… he suddenly realised Irma was still speaking.

“I must apologise, Irma. I’m afraid I was miles away.”

“I just wondered how Edward was doing. Have you heard from him lately?”

Albus felt the Chocolate Frog card bend and crease under his fingers. He pulled it out of his pocket and stared at the portrait.

  
_The Dark Wizard Grindelwald  
_

? - 1945

“As a matter of fact,” he said slowly, “I have.”

* * *

 _1st September, 1887  
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

Albus took his place at the staff table with a nod to his neighbours. They seemed a friendly enough group so far, but he hadn’t sat down to a meal yet, and the first staff meeting was not until later in the evening. Behind closed doors, that was where you found out the true measure of a colleague. Usually about three staff meetings in, when new arrivals became fair game.

“Gryffindor, were ye?” A loud voice came from the other neighbouring seat. Professor Guffy, the Head of Slytherin house, was a hearty, bluff man notable for his high colour and low humour. “I think that’s what the Headmaster said?”

“Yes, indeed I was… many years ago.”

“How many years?” The pinched face of Scratchett, the Muggle Studies teacher, leaned forward eagerly. The poor man had a terrible twitch affecting his right eye, and Albus was disconcerted for a moment, long enough to be distracted.

“Oh, stop bothering the poor soul with your questions, man!” Guffy’s voice was too loud, and several heads turned as he bellowed down the table.

Albus resisted the temptation to wiggle his finger in his ear, which was still tingling from the volume.

“Really, it’s perfectly all right—”

“Nosiest man in the country, that one,” his neighbour continued, apparently oblivious of both the red spots forming on his colleague’s pasty cheeks at the careless dismissal, and the fact that he had himself asked the first question. “Ye should just ignore him, Merlin knows we all do! Eh? Don’t we?”

There was an embarrassed titter of laughter along the table, and Scratchett leaned back with a glare at both Albus and Guffy. Fortunately Albus was spared having to say anything by the creaking of the Great Hall’s enormous doors as they opened once more.

“Ah, the first years have arrived.”

Unsurprisingly, this seemed to be met with universal approval.

“We’ve the Sorting to sit through yet, mind,” came the lilting, melancholy voice of Professor Frobisher. A pale, wilting lily of a woman, she did look as if she could use a good meal, and soon.

The room hushed for the Sorting Hat to start, and Albus surveyed the nervous crowd of new boys and girls with only mild interest; until his gaze fell on a tall boy with sharp eyes that seemed to be staring at him.

 _“…strong as a lion and sharp as an asp…”_

He barely listened to the Sorting Hat’s song, and was only vaguely aware of the continuing conversation at the table, because right now there was only himself and this boy in the room, locked in a stare that could not be broken; not by any means he had at his disposal.

“Edward Crowley!”

The boy broke off the connection and strolled up to the dais without a hint of nerves. He pulled himself up onto the chair and Headmaster McCormack dropped the wide brim of the hat over his eyes.

He seemed to be hidden underneath the hat for many long minutes before he emerged with a victorious smile.

“Slytherin!”

* * *

 _1st December, 1947  
A London Residence_

Edward had wholeheartedly embraced the serpents that symbolised his house from the very start, and there were still snakes of many types and form on display in the rooms Albus apparated to in the early hours of the morning. He ran his hand appreciatively over a finely detailed gold statue. Yes, really it was a very impressive work of art. The house may not have been as opulent as its occupant was used to, but his serpents hadn’t deserted him yet.

The scent of incense permeated the sickly sweet atmosphere of the apartments. Under the frankincense and copal was the recognisable stench of death, none the more welcome for the long wait.

Behind the bed hangings, a bloated, distorted face attempted a smile.

“Albus.”

“Edward. Dear boy.” Albus sat on the chair next to the bed, folding his robes out of the way.

“You received my message then.”

Albus laid the Chocolate Frog card down on the bumpy bedcovers. Grindelwald scowled out at the recumbent figure, shaking his fist dramatically like a pantomime villain.

“Ah yes. The demon king always comes through for us.”

“Will it be long?” Albus reached out to brush a sticky strand of hair aside.

“Not very.” Wasted muscles creaked and the bed curtains rattled on their hooks as the bulky figure pulled himself up higher onto the pillows. “Fetch me that bowl, would you?”

Albus wasn’t sure what he expected, but it wasn’t the ornately carved stone basin he picked up from the dresser.

“Just a little something I picked up in Greece.” Edward doubled over in a fit of coughing, gasping for breath. “One of a kind.”

“Most intriguing.” Albus ran his fingers over the runes and symbols around the edges.

“And useful.” Edward withdrew a wand from under his pillow. “It can be used to share memories, if you extract them carefully. Since mine are a little faulty…” He hesitated, then chuckled to himself. “I’ll tell you this, because I know you will find it amusing. I had a fanciful thought the other day, of Sin Eaters. You know of those?”

“Oh, yes. My grandfather’s neighbour had one. The practice will never entirely die out, I’m sure. I remember seeing the man go into the house, and my grandfather took me to the window. I must have only been five or six.”

“The first time we see death often has a strong impact.”

“Indeed, my boy.”

Albus could still remember the sound of the branches in the wind high above, the squish of damp grass between his bare toes, the smell of autumn in the fires burning in the woods.

“I remember seeing this man sit down, and my grandmother hand him a tankard. He drank it down – ale, I think it was – and ate a piece of bread. Then he stood up and spoke a few words, and Grandpa said that meant he had taken on old Everard’s sins.”

“Yes, a terrible heathen custom if you asked my father.” Edward ran his tongue over dry lips and swallowed. “Not that I ever did.”

“I find it a fascinating idea,” Albus was surprised how much he remembered of that incident even now. “Although I remember wondering for years just how many sins the man must have on his soul, and what that would do to him.”

“If a man believes himself to be wicked, he will be wicked?”

Albus nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, something along those lines.”

“You’re probably right.” Edward shrugged his shoulders. “Still, with that in mind, I have a request to make of you, old man. I decided that to make the most of the unique occasion of my death, I would like to revel in my sins rather than have them taken from me.” He coughed yet again as he spoke, breath wheezing heavily.

“I’m not in the least surprised to hear that.” Albus smiled.

“Didn’t think you would be. And you have some of my finest memories stored away in that library of yours.” He reached up a frail hand and tapped at Albus’ head. “My own brain is a little faulty these days, I’m afraid, and yours will be far more reliable. Would you care to share those memories with me once more, my old friend?”

Albus drew his wand. “Of course.”

“Just try to remember everything you can, then put them in the pensieve so I can visit them. You’ll be able to retrieve them… later.”

He paused to cough into his handkerchief.

“Just the memories of us… and Grindelwald, too.” Even rheumy and lost in folds of flesh, those eyes were still sharp. “Not the end though. I remember that well enough.”

As he would, Albus thought, with a pang of guilt. After all, he had been dying of it for the last two years.

* * *

 _October, 1887  
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

“That’s a phoenix.”

Albus looked up from tidying his desk. He hadn’t noticed Edward stay behind when the rest of the class left, or heard him approach.

“Hmm. And what makes you think that, Mr. Crowley?” Albus lifted the perch down from the top of the cupboard and Fawkes clicked his beak at him.

“Last week he was bigger.” The boy stretched out a hand, and Fawkes graciously let him stroke his head, extending his neck with a slight flap of his stubby little wings. “And the phoenix is a bird that ages and dies, then is reborn.”

His hand stroked the bird’s neck gently, over and over.

“Perhaps it is just a different bird.”

“No, I don’t think so. I was in here before the class started, and when I called him ‘Fawkes’, he looked up at me.”

“Very well deduced, and well tested.” Albus smiled down at the serious face, but the boy just frowned.

“My father died.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Albus sat down at the desk once more. No wonder the child was interested in the phoenix.

The boy waved off his sympathy. “You shouldn’t be. I disliked him. And it meant I could come here – my mother would have signed anything to be rid of me. She thinks I am wicked, you see.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” The boy looked him straight in the eye. At such close quarters the steady gaze was disconcerting. “I want you to tell me he won’t come back. I want you to tell me he will rot and decay and fill with maggots in the ground, and that his soul will do the same in some filthy hell.”

“Ah.” Albus wondered what he could say to that. The boy wasn’t hysterical, though he was possibly too calm to be believed. “Do you think he might return, somehow?”

“If a phoenix can do it, so can a wizard. And then maybe a man like him. A god-fearing _good_ man who caused misery wherever he went.” He leaned closer to Fawkes, who apparently took no offence, and simply rubbed his beak against the boy’s cheek.

Albus just nodded for a long moment. “I can’t tell you what you want to hear, Mr. Crowley.”

The boy dropped his hand and stepped back from the perch. “No, I didn’t think you could.”

Albus was still staring at the door long after it had swung shut behind the small figure.

*

As the term went on, short chats after Transfiguration class became something of a habit. Not every lesson, but usually once or twice a week, Albus would look up from his desk after class and find that curiously penetrating gaze on him once more. The child would ask one or two remarkably intelligent questions, and stay until he had received either satisfactory answers or the ones he was expecting to hear – Albus could never decide which it was.

On occasion they would have tea in Albus’ study, first when the boy announced it was his birthday and later when the boy’s increasingly demanding questions required books to be perused in more comfortable circumstances than a classroom could afford. Although Albus insisted on calling the boy ‘Mr. Crowley’ to be fair to his other students, Edward resisted all attempts to retain a professional distance in private, and soon Albus forgot to be uncomfortable about being addressed as an equal by a twelve year old boy.

On a practical front, Edward’s abilities were nothing special. Not yet, anyway - his body would have to grow used to his wand and the power it would eventually allow him to wield. Yet with his voracious appetite for knowledge and his ability to pick up on the important points of the most arcane texts, he would be a formidable wizard in time, of that Albus had no doubt. His reading tastes were far beyond his age, but Albus had to keep reminding himself he was still a precocious child, not a grown man.

Because sometimes, when they were in the middle of a heated argument about fourteenth century wizarding law and the boy had him running for reference books to defend his position, it was hard to remember just how young he really was.

*

Albus was careful to keep the Headmaster informed of the study sessions, particularly when Edward told him what all the students apparently knew about Professor Guffy, his Head of House. Most evenings he could be found in Hogsmeade until staggering back to the Castle at closing time, when he wasn’t down in the dungeons at the secret card school Albus had curiously _not_ been invited to join.

The Headmaster might have had something to say about the sessions if he’d known just how late some of them were running, however. Albus all too often found that however conscientious he tried to be, a carefully placed question or preposterous supposition from the boy would delay the child’s return to his dormitory until the early hours. Or sometimes, just the pleasure of sharing his books with a keen and enquiring mind would make the hours slip past more quickly than he would have believed possible.

“Mr. Crowley.”

Edward’s arm slipped from under his chin and thudded on the desktop. He blinked up from the desk where he had dropped off, not for the first time in their study sessions.

“You need to go back to your House now, Mr. Crowley.”

Albus pulled his hand back as Edward moved and stretched.

“I’ll just sleep here.”

“You certainly will not.” Albus began to move the books which had piled up on the desk during the evening. “Professor Guffy will have my hide if you’re not safe and sound in your dormitory by the time he makes his rounds.”

“He doesn’t bother most nights.” Edward rubbed his eyes and tried very hard not to yawn, but Albus could see the tell-tale hand covering his mouth when he turned away.

“And the very night you’re not there is the one time he will check.” Albus was determined to be firm with the boy, even though the rooms always seemed too empty once the child had left for the night.

“Shouldn’t think so. There’s a party at the Three Broomsticks, according to Smethwyck.”

“Ah.” Albus hesitated. That would probably be safe enough, then. And it was very late for the boy to wander back down to the dungeons alone…

Instead of insisting further, Albus transfigured his armchair into a comfortable enough bed for the boy, but somehow he wasn’t entirely surprised when he awoke to find an extra pair of cold feet tangled in his sheets, a hip pushing hard against his early morning erection and a head resting gently on his chest.

When the boy was washed and sent off to breakfast at last, Albus sat at his desk and stared at the untidy pile of books he had left behind, wondering when he had become the type of man who spent all his time with a young, affection-starved boy.

And exactly how he was going to stop this – whatever this was – before he crossed the line and did something he would regret.

*

Guffy was in full voice when Albus arrived at the staff meeting that week.

“The boy’s impossible to control, and never where he’s supposed to be, ye know that. What am I supposed to do about it, eh? What?”

“So it would seem. You need to keep your House under better control, Guffy. There have been three complaints this week from Madam Pince about damage to library books. The boy has no respect whatsoever.” Scratchett was obviously delighted at this opportunity to snipe at Guffy.

Albus folded his hands to keep from punching the man. He had no doubt as to which student was under discussion.

“Have you asked Edward why he defaced those books?” He kept his voice neutral, merely a polite enquiry.

“Oh yes.” Scratchett’s eyes glittered, and Albus was very much afraid he had just walked into a carefully baited trap. “He tells me the books are – and I assure you I’m not joking – he tells me they are _wrong_.”

Albus looked around at the rest of the room, most of whom were shaking their heads or smiling indulgently. Had they ever truly spoken to the boy?

“So, according to the boy, he took it upon himself to amend theories by some of the greatest minds of all time by correcting the text with his own handwritten notes, and by actually _tearing out_ some pages containing ideas which he believes would hold back the wizarding world if allowed to continue unchecked.”

“Well then,” said Albus pleasantly. “That would seem to explain it, would it not?”

He was going to have a few choice words with young Mr. Crowley if he could pull him out of this mess.

Scratchett folded his arms, an oddly smug smile on his lips. “I might have known you would take his side. It’s probably your influence on the child that’s responsible for his _peculiarities_ – I know your type, filled with crank notions.”

“The boy comes to me to do his homework, and we discuss what he has learned. Sometimes we move on to broader topics, and the boy has a quick, enquiring mind which is a pleasure to instruct. Would you prefer him to grow bored and frustrated?”

“I’d prefer him to behave like a schoolboy, instead of spending all his time with a blasted professor!” Professor Guffy exploded, growing quite red in the face.

“You see, Dumbledore,” Scratchett added, his facial twitch more prominent than ever, “Some of us don’t think it’s _healthy_ for him. For either of you.” He shifted in his seat, and Albus could hear his bony knees clicking.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” Professor Puddle, the Herbology professor, turned to him. “Some of the children have started rumours. The boy seems knowledgeable on… quite a range of subjects, shall we say. The children have picked up a few new words from him lately.” She blushed quite pink.

“I see,” said Albus. And he did, all too well. “I can assure you there is nothing inappropriate in the answers I have given the boy to his questions – on any subject.”

He wasn’t sure it was strictly true, considering some of the books they had perused together, but in their areas of concern it was true enough.

“Well, your assurance isn’t enough, I’m afraid.” Scratchett’s voice was cool and collected, though his face was flushed with some high emotion, his eyes bright.

Albus looked at the Headmaster, whose face was unusually stern.

“I’m sorry, Albus. We had a scandal just a couple of years ago… we can’t risk it happening again. The Ministry want you and the boy to be questioned.”

There was more to come, and Albus hoped he was wrong.

He wasn’t.

“And they want you to submit to an examination.”

*

“There’s no need to subject the boy to this.” Albus’ voice trembled a little as he unfastened his robes. “Surely your examination of me will tell you all you need to know?”

“The Ministry has procedures,” said the pompous little man who had accompanied the Healer. “Those procedures must be followed.”

Edward watched from his corner seat with round eyes as Albus removed his robes and trousers. Since the Ministry fool and the Healer showed no sign of asking the boy to leave, Albus turned his back to the boy when he was instructed to remove his undergarments.

He stared into the distance, trying to ignore the strange feeling of another wizard’s wand lifting up his penis, and the murmurings as he made copious notes. It seemed to take an inordinately long time for them to find nothing, but that was only as he had expected.

“Can you repeat that for my records please?”

“Certainly.” The Healer leaned forward to speak into the little box the Ministry man held. “There is no evidence that this man has engaged in sodomy recently.”

“What about…” The Ministry man waved a hand around behind his back.

“I’m only required to examine the boy for signs of penetration,” said the Healer, “You’d need to resubmit the paperwork for further examination of Professor Dumbledore.” He put his wand away and closed his notes. “You can get dressed again now, sir.”

At least he had gone first, even if it hadn’t spared the boy.

Dear Merlin, they even had to stand him on a box so he was high enough to bend over the table.

He wanted to look away, but the boy’s eyes were fixed on his, no doubt for support. He kept eye contact throughout, even when the boy winced at the entrance of the wand, his thin chest held down firmly on the impromptu examination table.

“I just need to make one more check.” The Healer let the wand fall to the table, and dipped his fingers in a slimy green potion, carefully sealing the lid again. “And then we’re all done.”

The Healer bent down again and Edward’s face set into a determined blank mask. Only the movements of his body gave away what was taking place, and Albus couldn’t imagine how uncomfortable it might be for even an exceptionally mature boy to be naked in front of three grown men, one of whom watched with far too prurient interest while another forced his fingers into his arse – all in order to prove that some pervert teacher hadn’t looked at him naked and shoved his fingers up that same, no longer untouched, arse.

Albus had never been so angry.

He took Edward straight back to his rooms afterwards, ignoring the looks from the Ministry men. They could think what they liked now; he had nothing more to prove.

Edward threw off his robes the moment the door shut. His trousers weren’t fully buttoned up, his shirt uncharacteristically hanging loose and half untucked. Buttons flew across the room as he pulled the trousers open roughly and stalked into the bedroom.

Albus followed a few moments later to find the boy naked, perched on the edge of the bed.

“Do it now,” he said. His face was flushed red, but from anger, not shame, and Albus had no doubt what he meant.

Albus knew he could say no, should say no. He should remind himself that the boy wasn’t old enough to truly know what he wanted, insist he dressed and returned to his dungeon dormitory to do his homework… but he couldn’t deny that he yearned to wipe away the touch of those slimy bureaucrats and their petty display of power, and show the boy just how good it could feel if he would allow him.

“If they can touch me, so can you.” Edward’s jaw was set, but it shook as Albus ran his hands over his hair, soothing some of the tension away.

“You know it’s not the same,” whispered Albus, but his hands stroked over the smooth shoulders and he felt them shiver under his touch. So responsive…

“I was hard under the table when they touched me.”

Albus’ hands pressed down more firmly on the shoulders, his fingers tightening against the urge to move lower, to stroke down the boy’s spine and open him up, make him gasp with pleasure.

“The wand they used was thicker than mine. I could feel it pushing against me, but it wouldn’t go in. The Healer had to use his fingers to find the hole, could you see that?”

Albus shook his head, not trusting himself to speak.

“His fingers were warm, and didn’t feel as bad as the wand when they touched it. He just put the tip of his finger in and used that to help slide the wand in, I could feel it.”

Albus’ hands shook at the vision in his head. The boy’s cheek was pressed tightly against his robes, nuzzling lightly against Albus’ groin as he spoke. The boy couldn’t fail to notice the effect he was having on him.

“The wand hurt a little, but I liked the fingers. I even liked it when he used two of them, that’s when I was hard.”

The boy looked up at him with those knowing eyes, too old for his years by far.

“Because I was imagining your fingers, not his.”

And Albus fell.

It was funny how easy it was to damn oneself. A moment ago he had been a respectable, if poorly paid, professor. Now he was racking up a list of criminal offences that would do Aberforth proud – except that Aberforth had never to the best of his knowledge done anything that would guarantee him time in Azkaban.

 _Two years_ , his mind whispered to him while his hands pushed the naked boy back on the bed and his mouth descended to inhale the sweet breath of those lips.

 _Five years_ , at least, it promised, for caressing the boy into a puddle of want and need; for pushing that skinny boyish knee up and sliding slick crooked fingers inside the tight channel that clenched around his finger; for twisting them until the boy sweated and rocked and begged for a hand, a mouth, anything at all, on his cock.

 _Ten years_ , each time the clock had ticked enough hours of study past and they left the books behind to sink into the large soft bed, each time they rolled and kissed and groaned until the sun chased the night away, each time he pushed his way inside that little piece of heaven, taking what he shouldn’t have, the boy gasping at the hand stroking him to completion.

 _A lifetime_ , for every time they threw caution aside and ran naked in the woods, the boy a young Pan in the moonlight, all high spirits and animal energy; for how the game always ended the same way, one of them caught and pressed up against a tree, night breeze caressing their skin and their laughter on the wind; for how they rutted like animals, made love like soulmates, fucked like demons.

For six whole years.

* * *

 _1st December, 1947  
A London Residence_

“You still think it was wrong.”

Albus sighed. “Edward, it _was_ wrong.”

“Sometimes it is conventional morality that is wrong, or at least unsuited to individual circumstances. It was what needed to happen; there should be no shame or regret in it.”

Albus squeezed Edward’s hand. “I think what I am most ashamed of is that I feel so little regret. For that, at least. The other…”

Edward just nodded. “I know, Albus. Oh, I know.”

* * *

 _June 1894  
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

Albus had always known it would be different when Edward left school. He was still unprepared for the lump in his throat when the day finally arrived.

“I’m all packed.”

Edward threw himself into Albus’ favourite chair and inspected the breakfast teapot on the cluttered desk. Full, as always. Pouring himself a strong cup, he lounged comfortably and watched Albus complete his own packing.

“You could help, you know.” Albus straightened up from a box of books and sealed it shut with a flick of his wand.

“I could, true.” Edward gestured to his plate with an airy wave. “But then I wouldn’t be able to eat half as many crumpets, you see. Do you really begrudge me this last taste of Hogwarts cooking?”

Albus didn’t answer, just sighed over the impossibility of understanding Edward’s reorganisation of the books that piled ever higher in his room. It would have been easier if he was taking all his books away with him for the summer, but that had become an impossibility over the last couple of years. Instead he had to search through irregular piles and jumbles of texts in no apparent logical order – he couldn’t even use a summoning charm in case of danger to life and limb from a toppling tower of books.

“Just tell me what you’re looking for and I’ll tell you where it is,” Edward mumbled from around a mouthful of crumpet. Butter dribbled down his chin, and he poked out a long tongue to mop it up. “Mmm, I’m going to miss these.”

“ _A Guide to Medieval Sorcery_.”

“Over by the window, third bookshelf, behind that stack of alchemy texts.”

“And that means…?”

“Ummm, only worth reading if you can turn this shit to gold.”

Fine.

“ _Dreadful Denizens of the Deep_?”

“Oh, too easy. That one’s on the pile by the fire. Under _Olde and Forgotten Bewitchments and Charmes_ , I think.”

“Hmm. Let me guess – with books like these you’ll never be short of firelighters?”

“Very good. You’re really getting the hang of my system. I must say, it’s about time.”

Albus sat down at the desk and refilled his own teacup.

“I’m going to miss you,” he confessed, and sipped at his tea. “Though not the liberties you take with my property, perhaps.”

“I’ll be back from my trip in three months.” Edward shrugged. “And I’ve no intention of becoming a stranger.”

At least Albus wouldn’t have to force him to go his own way – Edward had always been a Slytherin through to the core. There was as much chance of him not exploring the world as fully as he could as there was of him joining the very pin-striped morons he so vehemently despised.

“You should leave here yourself.” Edward cast a glance around the room. “You could do much better for yourself – politics now, that would be the thing. Turn the Ministry on its head and kick out all the useless pea-brained idiots who push paper from one place to another all day. Minister Dumbledore – yes, I like the sound of that.”

“I’m afraid I should hate it,” said Albus lightly. “Though turning the place on its head is a tempting thought. Unfortunately nobody takes the word of an insignificant professor terribly seriously, however much you think they ought to.”

He patted Edward’s arm absently, and rose to continue his packing.

“Then you have to be more than an insignificant professor. A _famous_ professor, perhaps – I’ve told you for years you should write books, Albus.”

“You tell me a lot of things, dear boy. When you were… thirteen? Yes, I think that’s right. Anyway, when you were thirteen I remember you telling me I should find a Dark wizard and defeat him so they would make me Minister for Magic.”

Edward smiled lazily from his chair. “I still think that was a good plan. That’s the sort of person who would have support against those pin-striped arseholes.”

He was right about that at least, Albus supposed.

“And…” Edward paused uncertainly for once, as if reluctant to speak. “I have this feeling it will be important one day. To have a hero, I mean. Someone who can get things _done_.”

He sipped at his tea, and Albus sat on the arm of his chair.

“Find me a Dark wizard and maybe we’ll give it a try,” he said, and bent to kiss him into silence, knowing it was for the last time that year.

*

As it turned out, it was the last time for almost ten years.

They were hardly strangers, though. From the moment Edward landed in France for the start of his travels he owled letters weekly, sometimes daily if he was somewhere of interest, and Albus enjoyed nothing more than sitting down for a long read of his adventures before composing a reply.

On his return from abroad, the life of a Cambridge student, and later a London gentleman about town was so far removed from that of a professor in a far distant Scottish castle that the letters gradually dwindled to a monthly or twice-yearly occurrence. Each one he received, however, was detailed, vastly amusing, and full of the Edward he remembered, and not the ‘Aleister’ that he occasionally read about in the Society pages, or more frequently as part of some scandal or other in the less respectable Muggle newspapers he was careful not to be seen reading.

When he did see him again it came completely out of the blue. Albus had only received a letter the day before, although it had been a little delayed as the owl had to follow his removal to his summer residence, which for that year was a delightful cottage on the south coast of England.

There was no warning, other than a loud pop outside the cottage door. Seconds later, the door swung open with a cursory knock, and Edward was strolling around the tiny kitchen, drinking tea, and searching out cakes and sweets before he could blink, as if they had never been apart.

The flow of tea and anecdotes didn’t stop until the cottage was dark enough to need the lamps lit.

“This the bedroom?” Edward indulged his curiosity while Albus put away the tea things, opening a low door off the living room. “Ah, yes.”

Albus could hear the thump of his shoes hitting the floor as he followed him.

“Presumptuous young hooligan.” He leaned against the doorway and watched Edward begin to undress.

Edward just shook his head in mock dismay, fingers working at his buttons. “Do you want to waste time talking, or do you want to fuck?”

There was only really one answer to that.

Ten years had changed the body of the boy he remembered, and Albus could feel scars under his fingertips as he ran his hands from the man’s shoulders and down his back. Just touching him made him too impatient to ask any more questions though, and Edward laughed when Albus pushed his shirt down his arms and tugged hard, frustrated with the sleeves that seemed reluctant to cooperate.

“Cufflinks,” he said, and unfastened them. “The bane of a gentleman’s life.”

As soon as the shirt was off, Albus dropped his robe to the floor. His hands couldn’t stay away from the shoulders in front of him, so much broader and grown-up but still familiar, still his boy. Always his boy. He groaned and pulled the still-youthful body closer to him.

“I can see you missed me.” Edward quirked an eyebrow up past Albus’ erection, and flicked his tongue at the tip, widening his eyes. “Oh, what a big prick you have there, Professor, is that all for me?”

“Enough teasing, Mr. Crowley.” Albus watched the dark pupils dilate at his stern tone, and pushed his hips forward, enjoying the sensation of pressing his cock against a stubbled cheek for the first time in far too long. He rubbed a trail of slick pre-come along the man’s jaw, searching for the soft, wet warmth of that familiar mouth.

It was like dipping into the past, letting the reddened, swollen tip slide between those lips. Albus let him take no more until he was certain of control, holding his head still and pushing slowly, so carefully inside, relishing every moment all the more because he knew he wouldn’t last long. Edward’s face was so eager, so desperate; he was always that way when he sucked on Albus’ prick, as if he could swallow down age and experience with Albus’ seed, be more than a child, more than a boy, more than he appeared to be.

Yes, the look on his face when he licked his lips clean of Albus’ come had just that same remarkable relish and delight, even now. And when Albus lay across the pillows, a still almost hairless chest tantalising his back as the boy slid into place, the murmurs in his ear still spoke of consuming, becoming; all of them insane and grotesque poetry that dropped between obscenities into Albus’ ear, and all of them uniquely arousing.

Albus gasped at the first touch to his arse, a rough plundering with spit-slick fingers that excited him beyond belief. He marvelled at the strength of the man now he was grown, the boy who was never hesitant and shy now capable of taking what he demanded.

“Edward!” He groaned, and spilt his seed once more, this time across the pristine sheets, as the man’s barely lubricated cock forced its way inside him, opening him up and taking its ultimate pleasure. He lay breathless, allowing the stream of Edward’s imaginings to flow into his mind, gaining speed and strength with every thrust that rocked to the very core of him, until the stream erupted into a wild shriek, and a burning liquid heat filled his insides.

* * *

“By the way, I might have some news for you, old boy.”

Edward pulled his arm free of their embrace, and sat up, reaching for his cigarette case. He pulled out a cigarette and held it between elegant fingers until Albus summoned the matches for him.

“Might have found your Dark wizard,” he said, watching a perfect smoke ring rise to the ceiling.

“My—?” Albus settled himself comfortably again, pulling the sheet up over his stomach. He laughed as he recalled the conversation. “You don’t give up, do you?”

“Never, old man.” The dark eyes were surprisingly serious, and it was so like old times that Albus couldn’t help but smile.

“I know you always laugh, but you know I’m right, don’t you? Albus, the wizarding world might be run by imbeciles and half-wits, but I’d hate to see the end of it. If we aren’t ready for it, that just might happen.”

Albus watched another smoke ring rise, scratching absently at the drying, flaky stains on his leg, but remained silent.

“Oh, you know all right. And if I have to turn you into a hero to do it, you’re going to be as ready as you can for whatever is coming.”

He stilled Albus’ hand and squeezed it tightly. Albus, as always, gave in.

“Very well, very well. Tell me all about him.”

“Name of Grindelwald.” Edward tapped his cigarette on the ashtray. “Nobody knows where he came from, who he is, or what he is capable of, but he’s been causing a bit of a ruckus. Rumours are he’s looking for trouble, but he’s just rabble-rousing for now.”

“Surely not a serious threat?”

“Maybe, maybe not… but it’s worth keeping an eye on him.” Edward stubbed out the cigarette and reached over the body next to him to put the ashtray on the bedside table. “Want me to pass on anything else I find out?”

“Please.” Albus settled down to sleep against the warm body, wondering why he felt Edward’s instincts were probably right on this one. Perhaps the importance Edward obviously attached to it was simply beginning to affect him as well.

The cottage and Edward’s visits each summer became a constant if unscheduled habit over the next few years, so much so that any missed visit caused concern. Edward had an extraordinary ability to attract trouble, like nobody he had ever known before, but somehow he managed to collect information on this Grindelwald without getting himself killed, not that it stopped Albus from worrying about him.

It was decades before Grindelwald became a serious threat to the wizarding world, but when he did, Albus was more than ready for him.

* * *

“Not the battle, Albus.”

“Don’t worry, my boy. Are you sure you want the rest, though? It can’t be the easiest thing to think about—”

“I need to see it, old man. You’ll understand why. Later.”

* * *

 _August 3, 1945  
Grindelwald Castle, Austria_

It had been a difficult fight. The majority of even the Aurors that were left had abandoned the field or were lying injured in gore-streaked piles. Not many deaths, though, despite the vicious and bloodthirsty reputation Grindelwald had built up over his rise to power.

Something just didn’t add up about the whole situation, and if it was the last thing he did, Albus was going to get to the bottom of it today.

Albus picked his way across the minefield of traps and jinxes towards the ditch where Grindelwald’s body lay. He held his wand at the ready; there was no guarantee the Dark wizard was dead, after all, although Albus would have been surprised to find him less than fatally injured.

It was difficult to keep walking through the stench of blood and death towards the soot-blackened hole in the ground, not least when Edward could be lying dead or injured on the field. He might even have walked right past him, but there was nothing he could do about that right now.

Please let him be alive, Albus prayed, dear Merlin, please let Edward be alive.

Mouldy earth crumbled into the blood-stained blast pit as Albus edged around the rim. The body was face down, not moving, twisted and mangled it was true, but…

A flick of his wand and the body turned over gently. The features were distorted on the bloodied face, somehow wrong… a charm, he realised, just as the eyes opened.

“Albus.”

And the charm crumbled before his eyes, leaving him holding Edward in his arms, triumphant and crowing even as his life-blood seeped into the earth.

“A fine battle, old man.” He coughed, blood bubbling from the corner of his mouth. “You’ll be the biggest hero the wizarding world has ever seen. Just think what you will be able to achieve.”

Albus just hoped it would be worth the price. Lying there, helpless to do anything about the man dying slowly in his arms, it seemed unlikely.

* * *

 _1st December, 1947  
A London Residence_

“Ha. Didn’t die though, did I?”

“You’ve always been too stubborn for your own good. Perhaps it would have been best if you had died cleanly instead of rotting away here for two years. Or better still, not at all.”

“It had to be this way. You know that, Albus.”

“I know, I know.” Albus sighed heavily. “But it’s been hard keeping away until you sent for me.”

“Just necessary precautions, old man.”

Albus began to speak, but Edward suddenly wheezed, clutching at his chest.

“If you could–” He began to cough, and pointed to the dresser on the other side of the room, where Albus could see a bottle and glass.

Albus hurried to pour a generous measure of whisky, and returned to the bed, where Edward was levitating the pensieve onto a nearby table. He held the glass to the sick man’s lips, and Edward choked the burning liquid down.

“Thank you.” His voice was hoarse, tired.

“You should rest.” Albus leaned back in the upright chair.

“No.” The voice was growing fainter now. “Not long to go.” He drew a long, withered breath into his lungs. “Want you to know… the pensieve is yours. It’s all yours.”

“Never mind that now.” Albus leaned over, but the last spark of light was dying fast now.

And then it blinked out.

It was many hours before Albus stirred, and found the leathery hand cold in his grasp. When he finally rose, he picked up the Chocolate Frog card that lay on the bedcovers above the still chest, frowning slightly. Grindelwald scowled back, as always, and something tickled at the corners of Albus’ memory. Why had he brought this with him? He was obviously losing his mind. Or… yes, the pensieve.

He drew his wand and walked round to the other side of the bed to retrieve his memories from the shallow, silver-filled bowl.

Except where there should have been long silver strands of memories there was only faint, faded rune marks and smooth, cold stone.

It was empty.

* * *

Albus had his concerns sometimes, especially knowing that some of his memories had been stolen, though for what reason he could not begin to imagine. They popped into his mind now and again, little sparks of self-doubt that threatened to flare up and blind him, vague intimations of inappropriate thoughts that blinked with the distracting fascination of a hinkypunk’s lure.

But when the feelings started to overwhelm him, he would sit in the dark of the library and listen to the clock tick the quiet moments of his life away. Here, surrounded by almost as many books as there were souls in the wizarding world, he could reflect on what he knew of himself, of his long years and the deeds his name was known for.

Gradually the spark would fade, flashing and shrinking until it blinked out into nothing.

And Albus Dumbledore could safely continue to guard the wizarding world, secure in the knowledge that he was, after all, a good man.


End file.
